I’m sorry to see them go.
There, I’ve admitted it to myself.
Ana is never going to enjoy these, it’s just not her thing.
What is your thing, Anastasia?
Books.
It will never be canes.
I lock up the room and head to my study. Once there, I pack the canes in a closet to be dealt with at a later date, but for now, she won’t have to see them again.
At my desk, I finish my coffee, aware that Ana will be ready for breakfast shortly. But before I join her in the kitchen, I call Welch.
“Mr. Grey?”
“Good morning. I wanted to talk to you about Jack Hyde.”
ANA IS BEAUTIFUL AND elegant in gray when she enters the kitchen for breakfast. She should wear skirts more often; she has great legs. My heart swells. With love. With pride. And humility. It’s a new and exciting feeling that I hope I never take for granted.
“What would you like for breakfast, Ana?” Gail asks her.
“I’ll just have some granola. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” She sits beside me at the counter, her cheeks pink.
I wonder what she’s thinking about? This morning? Last night? The spreader bar?
“You look lovely,” I offer.
“So do you.” Her smile is demure. Ana hides her inner freak well.
“We should buy you some more skirts. In fact, I’d love to take you shopping.”
She doesn’t seem overly impressed with this idea. “I wonder what will happen at work today,” she says, and I know she’s referring to SIP to change the subject.
“They’ll have to replace the sleazeball,” I mutter, but when, I don’t know. I’ve placed a moratorium on any hiring until we’ve conducted a staff audit.
“I hope they take on a woman as my new boss.”
“Why?”
“Well, you’re less likely to object to me going away with her,” she says.
Oh, baby, you’d appeal to women, too.
Mrs. Jones places my omelet in front of me, distracting me from my brief and extremely enjoyable fantasy of Ana with another woman.
“What’s so funny?” Ana asks.
“You are. Eat your granola, all of it, if that’s all you’re having.”
She purses her lips but picks up a spoon and devours her breakfast.
“Can I take the Saab today?” she asks when she finishes the last spoonful.
“Taylor and I can drop you at work.”
“Christian, is the Saab just for decoration in the garage?”
“No.” Of course not.
“Then let me drive it to work. Leila’s no longer a threat.”
Why is everything a battle?
It’s her car, Grey.
“If you want,” I concede.
“Of course I do.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“What? I’ll be fine on my own.”
I try a different tack. “I’d like to come with you.”
“Well, if you put it like that,” Ana acquiesces with an accepting nod.
ANA IS BEAMING. SHE’S so delighted with the car. I’m not sure she’s concentrating on what I’m saying. I show her the ignition on the center console.
“Strange place,” she says, but she’s practically bouncing in her seat and touching everything.
“You’re quite excited about this, aren’t you?”
“Just smell that new-car smell. This is even better than the Submissive Special. Um, the A3,” she says quickly.
“Submissive Special?” I try not to laugh. “You have such a way with words, Miss Steele.” I sit back. “Well, let’s go.” I wave her in the direction of the exit.
Ana claps her hands, starts the car, and pops the gearshift into drive. If I had known how thrilled she would be about driving this car, I might have relented and let her drive it sooner.
I love seeing her this happy.
The Saab glides up to the barrier and Taylor follows us out onto Virginia Street in the Q7.
This is the first time Ana has ever driven us anywhere, the first time she’s driven me. As a driver, she’s confident and seems adept; however, I’m not an easy passenger. This I know. I don’t like being driven at all, except by Taylor. I prefer to be in the driver’s seat.
“Can we have the radio on?” she asks, as we pull up at a stop sign.
“I want you to concentrate.”
She snaps back, “Christian, please, I can drive with music on.”
Choosing to ignore her attitude, I switch on the radio. “You can play your iPod and MP3 discs as well as CDs on this,” I inform her.
The sound of The Police fills the car: a golden oldie, “King of Pain.” I turn it down—it’s too loud.
“Your anthem,” Ana says with an impish grin.
She’s making fun of me. Again.
“I have this album, somewhere,” she says.
And I remember she mentioned “Every Breath You Take” in an e-mail; the stalker’s anthem, she called it. She’s funny—at my expense. I shake my head because she was right. After she left me, I did loiter outside her apartment during my morning run.
She’s gnawing at her bottom lip. Is she worried about my reaction? About Flynn? What he might say? “Hey, Miss Smart Mouth. Come back.” She stops abruptly at the red light. “You’re very distracted. Concentrate, Ana. Accidents happen when you don’t concentrate.”